Maxwell slammed the heels of both hands into the steering wheel multiple times. His chest rose and fell with the weight of his heavy breathing. A couple of minutes passed. He squeezed his eyelids together tightly, latched on to the steering wheel with both hands, and counted to ten to gain his composure. He needed more time, but there wasn’t any left. He had fifteen minutes to get to court. Maxwell had to maintain control. He couldn’t allow Pastor Harris’s discovery to make him come unglued. He needed to be 100 percent in court. He shook his head from left to right, massaged his temple, and realized his headache was completely gone. Not a minute too soon. Pastor Harris’s prayer came to mind, but Maxwell refused to link the prayer to his headache vanishing.
After peering into the rearview mirror and tugging at his tie, Maxwell reclaimed his confidence. He stepped from the car and grabbed his briefcase. Maxwell knew who he was and didn’t need a self-righteous pastor to tell him. He was an attorney who had enjoyed undeniable success in the courtroom. Maxwell would find out what Pastor Harris knew and would figure out how to deal with him. He had to. There was no other option.
Chapter 45
Maxwell’s car glided through his neighborhood and onto his street. It was quiet, and the blanket of night had just begun to cover the sky. A few scattered stars offered a dim glow way up high. He pressed the button over his visor to open the garage door, drove in, and then headed inside the house. He immediately unbuttoned his shirt collar, ripped the tie from his neck, and flung it across the sofa. He headed upstairs and wound up in the open loft space, an area Maxwell didn’t often frequent. There sat his shiny black baby grand piano. Maxwell struggled to remember the last time he’d touched it. He did remember how calming the music was.
He ran his finger across the top of the piano. Not a speck of dust was present. His cleaning lady kept every corner of his house spotless. Even the rooms he rarely visited. She was worth every dollar he paid her and more. A song came to mind. It was his mother’s favorite. He sat down on the piano bench and raised the fallboard. Although the melody was hazy in his head, somehow his fingers performed every keystroke perfectly. The second time Maxwell played the song, he could feel his mother sitting next to him on the bench. He could almost smell the fresh baked cookies after school, the ones she’d give him with milk before his piano lesson when he was seven years old. Maxwell shook off the cloak of nostalgia that attempted to embrace him by lowering the fallboard down over the ivory keys and abandoning the rarely visited space.
There was at least a couple hours’ work awaiting him in his briefcase. After a quick perusal of the newspaper, he would get right on it. Maybe he’d get four hours of sleep tonight. That wouldn’t be bad, considering that the night before he’d gotten only three. He made a sandwich, nabbed the Philadelphia Tribune and a bottle of water, and planted himself on the sofa. Two bites into his sandwich, he swallowed hard. He’d discovered yet another article about himself. Maxwell wasn’t alarmed, since he had been constantly in the news lately. So much for his plan to have Pastor Harris tormented by the media. From what Maxwell could see, that approach had backfired and landed him in the spotlight, alone. Although he savored his victory over Greater Metropolitan, Maxwell was concerned about the negative publicity affecting his business. He couldn’t let that happen.
Maxwell read the first paragraph under his picture on the front page. Is Maxwell Montgomery on trial? The court of public opinion is in session and doesn’t appear to be leaning favorably toward the local attorney. There are mounting sentiments within the community that probes into Pastor Harris and Faith Temple amount to no more than a witch hunt. A similar witch hunt led to the imprisonment of five church leaders and the collapse of Greater Metropolitan, a church with roughly three thousand members located in Philadelphia. Many believe that one of those church leaders, Deacon Steve Burton, was wrongly accused and convicted with Attorney Montgomery’s assistance. The deacon was found guilty by association in the charges brought against Greater Metropolitan Church. He received a ten-year federal prison sentence and was recently murdered in prison, after serving a little over a year of his sentence.
The infuriated attorney leapt off the sofa. Having the media continuously portray him as the bad guy had to stop. He paced the floor from the sofa to the double doors of the formal dining room and back to the sofa as his newspaper dangled from his hand. He came to a jerking stop as he flung the paper up to his face and read more of the article. Attorney Montgomery has brought down many mega-ministries and major church leaders who were found guilty of a litany of charges. He has won every case and is estimated to have won over two hundred and thirty million dollars in civil cases for his clients. But, as they say, there’s a first time for everything. The once thorough and sure shot Maxwell Montgomery seems to have missed his target with Deacon Steve Burton. Will this case mean that an asterisk must be placed on his undefeated winning streak? Could this be the first in Montgomery’s list of mistakes?
Maxwell flung the newspaper across the room, and it knocked over a John-Richard original sculpture he’d acquired for a small fortune. He didn’t care. His reputation, which was more valuable, was taking a beating in the media. With the remote in hand, he turned on the TV and caught the tail end of a news broadcast that questioned why no formal charges had been brought against Pastor Harris. “Attorney Maxwell Montgomery has been unable to provide any supporting documentation against the admired leader of Faith Temple, Pastor Harris.” He couldn’t flick the TV off fast enough. Weren’t there more newsworthy events happening in Philadelphia? Surely there had to have been a robbery, an accident, or something an elected city official had promised and failed to keep their word about. Maxwell’s story shouldn’t be a lead story, or at least he preferred it not to be.
Maxwell schlepped past his briefcase and the work inside it that waited. He dragged himself upstairs, peeled off his clothes, and retreated to the shower. Hot water beat down on his shoulders and his neck. The beads of water were like tons of weight holding him down. His head hung low and his palms pressed against the shower wall while steam engulfed him. If the media was riding his back now, what would happen if they found out about his connection to Bishop Ellis Jones? His reputation and his law firm would be ruined. The heat of public scrutiny was uncomfortable.
He jerked his head backward, allowing the cleansing water to rain down on his face. Maxwell pounded reassurance into his mind. He held fast to the belief that Pastor Harris was a con artist, just like the rest. He wholeheartedly believed it. Why couldn’t anyone see it but him? He was more compelled to get the necessary proof. The naysayers would see who was right. He could already envision the media’s apology and the revised headlines:ANOTHERCHECKINTHEWINCOLUMNFORATTORNEY MAXWELL MONTGOMERY.
After stepping out of the shower, Maxwell dried his body and slipped on a T-shirt and a pair of shorts. Whew, he thought. He determined that a shave was required after running both hands along his jawline while peering in the mirror. That same reflection challenged him. Would he deserve it if Pastor Harris held a press conference and unveiled his cloudy past? Would that be Maxwell’s just reward for sacrificing his personal life in the name of securing justice for others? The man in the mirror glared back at him, without answers to his questions.
Just then Maxwell’s phone squealed and snapped him out of the trance. When he got across the room, the noise had stopped. The call had ended. Great. He wasn’t up for a conversation, anyway. Before he could walk away, the phone rang again. He took the call.
“Hey, I’m sure you’ve probably read the newspaper or seen the news reports by now. This kind of press is bad for business, yours and mine.”
“Look, Garrett, I can weather the storm with the sharks. I just need you to come through on your end. Find something on this guy. It’s time to put the plan that we talked about in play. Let’s see if the good pastor can resist a beautiful young woman who is willing to throw some serious cash at the church. You’ve got everything set up now, right?”
&nbs
p; Garrett grunted into the phone. “There are still just a couple of details to nail down.”
“Let’s get this thing sewn up. In the next day or two, that pawn needs to be in motion. You’ll need to stop by tomorrow evening to pick up the cash needed to make this thing happen.”
“Okay. I’ll stop by your office after five. Let’s wrap this up.” Garrett slung his phone across the counter, glad the call was over. He peered at the newspaper. The sight of Pastor Harris’s and Maxwell’s photos side-by-side poked at him. Hopefully, there was not a storm brewing in the distance that would leave Garrett and Maxwell swinging alone in the wind. Maxwell’s law firm might be able to handle the fallout, but Garrett was certain his investigation service wouldn’t. Might be time to cut ties, he thought. He’d soon see.
Chapter 46
Maxwell squeezed the stress ball in his hand and released it, then repeated the process. He tossed it against the wall a few times, then slung the ball into his desk drawer. It had to happen, and he was bold enough to do it. He pressed the speed dial on his phone.
“It’s almost five. Are you on your way?”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” Garrett assured Maxwell.
“See you then.”
Maxwell hung up, and his pen flew across the paper as he wrote notes that he wanted to cover with Garrett. This was a delicate project, and everything had to be planned out carefully. He reached into the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a thick white envelope. He slipped the money out of it, fanned the bills like a deck of cards, and then slapped them against the palm of his hand. He returned the money to the envelope, sealed it, and placed the money back in the drawer. Then he punched down hard on the keypad of the phone he’d purchased especially for this occasion. His foot tapped the floor rapidly. After the fourth ring, there was still no answer. By the sixth ring, Maxwell was standing.
“What took you so long to answer?”
“Relax. Everything is cool,” declared the man on the other end of the line.
“She needs to be on a plane tomorrow,” Maxwell insisted as the wrinkles across his forehead faded.
“Why does she have to be from Belize, anyway?” The man’s voice was thick and raspy.
The guy was asking too many questions. Did he think Maxwell was going to tell him that the seduction plan required a woman who was far removed from the media in Pennsylvania? Anywhere in the United States was too close. Maxwell would have gotten a woman from Antarctica had there been a viable contact on the underground hotline that he used for special cases like this.
“Just be sure she’s on the plane,” Maxwell demanded, pressing his knuckles against his desk.
“She’ll be ready. Don’t worry. I’ll get back to you tomorrow with her travel details.”
“Don’t bother. My guy will contact you. He’ll take care of your fee for making the connection.”
“Whatever you say. Just have my money before the girl gets on the plane.”
“You’ll get your money.” Maxwell terminated the call, removed the back of the cell phone, and plucked out the SIM card. He broke it in half, tossed the disposable phone into the trashcan next to his desk, and flushed the card pieces down the toilet. He was satisfied, having eliminated anyone’s ability to link that call to him.
He made a trip to the bathroom and on the way back into his office, Maxwell’s eyes shifted to a bookshelf housing silver scales of justice mounted on a marble base. It drew him closer. He picked up the heavy symbol and was instantly encouraged. The countless long nights spent working and the personal sacrifices made had been worth it. He’d enjoyed a flawless record and a stellar reputation . . . until Greater Metropolitan. Maxwell was certain the negative attention would dissipate, but he had to question his upcoming move. Was it worth it? In the past, the end result had consistently justified whichever route he’d taken to win. Somehow this didn’t settle as well. Was he being a defender of justice, or was he about to tip the scales? The heavyhearted attorney placed the scales back on the bookshelf, next to one of his bar association plaques.
A strong gust of wind slammed against the tall window behind Maxwell. He turned his back to justice as another loud gust of wind crashed into the window. Maxwell dashed to the window to check out the ruckus. He examined the sky, and dark clouds were forming. The leaves on the trees were swaying with the wind. It appeared that a storm was brewing. Maxwell was on the brink of facilitating a storm of his own. He was about to set an act in motion that mirrored nothing he’d done in all his years as an attorney. Yet it was necessary. He couldn’t allow Pastor Harris to slip through the cracks of justice.
A shrilling phone in his jacket pocket demanded attention. Maxwell was debating whether to answer when he realized it was his sister. Why was she calling? He didn’t have time for arguing but was compelled to answer. She would get only a couple minutes of his precious time. He trudged into his office, took a seat behind the desk, prepared himself, and answered the call.
“I want to thank you for paying Dad’s hospital bill. I had Mom call to get the total for his last stay so we could set up payments, and the bill was already paid.”
“No big deal.”
“It is. It really is. You say you don’t care about us. You pretend not to be interested in how Dad is doing. Yet anytime there’s a medical bill to be paid, you snag it and pay it before it’s barely been processed.”
“I paid a bill, Christine. I didn’t operate on him.”
“It says you care. Stop being so hard and just let your family back into your life. You walked away from us so many years ago. You can’t possibly want this distance between yourself and your family. Aren’t you lonely? Don’t you feel like something is missing? No wife, no kids, no family. Is that really what you want?”
“You know what? I am really getting tired of these lectures every time I talk to you. I’ve got to go.” He pressed his thumb against the END button hard, held it there a few seconds, until the phone powered off, then tossed the phone onto his desk. He didn’t need a psychoanalyst. He didn’t need anybody waiting for him when he got home. Whatever this thing between him and the Montgomerys was, it wasn’t a relationship. That was definitely not a picture he’d painted. He’d just framed it.
A moment later his assistant’s voice broke through on the intercom. “Mr. Montgomery, I’m about to leave, unless there is something else you need.”
“No. Thank you. Go on home.”
“Garrett just arrived.”
“Send him right in.”
“I’ll lock up. See you tomorrow,” his assistant told him.
Maxwell met Garrett at the door and ushered him into his office. “Thanks for coming over.”
“Sure. I’ll take the money and get out your way.”
“Shhh. Not yet.” Maxwell scurried to the security panel on the wall behind his desk and watched the light turn red, signaling that his office alarm was engaged. Maxwell plopped down in the chair behind his desk and swiveled. “We’re alone. Now we can talk.”
“You’re sure you want to do this? You are actually going to set Pastor Harris up by paying a woman to see if he will cheat on his wife?” Garrett stood near the front of the desk, with his car keys in hand.
A cryptic, snicker slipped past Maxwell’s tight lips. “Absolutely. If his character is as clean and straitlaced as you keep telling me, he should pass the test of infidelity with no problem. But if he cheats, you can best believe he’s fallen prey to other shady dealings.”
“I still don’t think this is the right move to make. And I can definitely tell you I won’t be a part of doctoring evidence in any way. If Pastor Harris turns the woman down, then that’s it. We pull the plug on this crazy mission and put the woman back on a plane out of here.”
“I’m fine with that.” Maxwell removed from the drawer a four-by-six photo of a woman with olive-colored skin, coal-black eyes, and a short, sassy haircut. He pulled out a second photo. This one was a body shot of the woman. He passed both photos to Gar
rett. “Nice, right? I believe she is just the bait we need.”
As Garrett examined the photos, his gaze bounced back and forth between Maxwell and the images of the woman. “So what’s next?” Garrett’s burning stare bore directly into Maxwell’s eyes.
“All you need to do is get in touch with our contact. Once he gets paid, he’ll put the woman on the plane tomorrow. Finalize the details and meet her at the airport when she arrives. Give her the instructions on how she is to meet Pastor Harris and what to do from there.” Maxwell reached across the desk and handed the unenthusiastic investigator a thick white envelope. “That will cover the contact’s fee, yours, plus a bonus. There’s extra in there to compensate the woman, cover her hotel expenses, and pay her flight back to Belize. If you need more, just let me know.”
Maxwell scooped up a pen and crossed items off the checklist in front of him. “Oh, and the contact’s number is in there. Of course, my name is not to be mentioned to the woman.” He dropped the pen and snapped his fingers on both hands. “It’s that simple.”
“Simple? Are you kidding me? This is crazy and risky. You have to admit this is over the line, and I’m not sure I want to be a part of it.” The right side of Garrett’s mouth twitched.
Maxwell clutched the arm of his chair to prevent himself from leaping up. He needed Garrett to make this thing happen. There was no one else he could trust. The woman could never see Maxwell’s face and be able to identify him. Garrett had to stay in the game. “Look, this is no big deal. Think of it as a way to prove whether Pastor Harris is the real deal or not. You keep saying he appears to be. Well, here is a way to prove it.”
Redeemed Page 20
